"She refused, and I _kept my word_."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 08:46 Pacific Time on Tue Jun 17 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly sunny today. The temperature is 50 degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 29.99 and steady, and the relative humidity is 86 percent. The dewpoint is 46 degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (82% full).

Salem and Mel's Apartment

The small, two-bedroom apartment has a warm, cozy look. The thrift-store furniture's been chosen for its quality and comfort, and the new place actually looks an improvement over the old. There are a few less cockroaches, but still no traps or use of sprays.

Three quick, loud knocks come at the door. Who it is will come as no surprise, although the brief phone call provided no answers as to why he might be coming by. The Fostern Fianna wasn't very talkative; doing little more than identifying himself and asking if Salem was at home.

Salem answers the door, dressed in the usual casual black, though barefoot. "Morning," he says, greeting the Fianna as he steps aside to let Luke in.

CNN's on the television, but muted. Spread out on the coffee table on top of an old towel is a World War II era bolt-action rifle, a Mosin-Nagant, currently in pieces, obviously in the process of being cleaned.

Luke nods. "Morning. I hear you have something to tell me." The rifle gets a glance, but perhaps surprisingly, no comment. But then, the Fianna doesn't seem to be in quite so good a mood as the last few times Salem saw him. Bad day already?

Salem's brow furrows. Puzzled, he closes the door behind Luke and turns the latch. "I did? Who told you that?"

Luke ignores the latter part of the question for the moment, replying to the former, "You did. Something very important to me, in fact. Though maybe you passed it on to someone else, instead. Layne, Matt?"

Salem's frown deepens; the Walker appears to have no idea what the Fianna's talking about. He shakes his head. "I haven't spoken to either of them in months. Or any Fianna apart from yourself... and that was when you were teaching me Questing Stone."

Luke sighs. "I was afraid of that. I'd hoped for better from you, though. Your housemate?"

Ah ha. The light dawns. Salem nods and steps over toward the couch and the disassembled rifle on the coffee table beside it. "Ah. Mel. Who didn't wish to make herself known." He sits down and shrugs. "I offered several times... even to accompany her out to Boston where she could meet her mother's family." Sitting down, he looks up at Luke with a bland expression. "She didn't want to. I chose to respect her wishes and keep my promise to her."

Luke scowls, taking a step closer to the Glass Walker, voice low and fierce. "It's not your _place_ to be making that kind of choice. You're a fucking Philodox, so you should know that better than anyone. You don't just _decide_ not to tell a tribe about their _family_." Deep breath, deep breath. Stop there, because it's going to get worse if he keeps going.

Salem's expression goes cold. "Yes, I _am_ a fucking Philodox, Runs-At-Dawn, and as such I _keep my word_. Always. Whether it is to the highest Elder or to a young woman who's suddenly had her entire life turned upside down, her whole history made out to be a lie, whose had to find out that her greatest hero, a man whose death affected her almost as much as it did his widow, was not even human. Who, only a week after having her paradigm ripped out from under her and twisted into new and unpleasant shapes, nearly got her throat torn out by a vampire and who is _still_ adjusting to the fact that small teenage girls can turn into nine-foot killing machines." He takes a breath, keeps his voice forcibly calm. "I offered to introduce her. I spoke well of you, in fact, as did Renee. She refused. For now, anyway. She refused, and I _kept my word_."

Luke says "You kept your word, yes. But let me remind you that two points of the litany deal with respect -- respect for those higher in station, and respect for those beneath. Three, if you want to include territory, and I've known quite a few who would include kin with that. What you've done, by keeping your word, is blatantly disrespect an entire _tribe_. There are very, very few things more important to a Fianna than family."

Salem smiles thinly, an expression that doesn't reach his eyes. His tone of voice remains even; he's keeping a tight rein on his temper by sheer force of will, and with careful, deliberate motions he looks away and picks up a piece of the bolt assembly and starts oiling it. "And that is why the path of Honor is not an easy one." He isn't smiling anymore. "I respected her wishes. She didn't _want_ to meet her family. I was loyal to her. I chose to live by my word, though I knew it might cause me problems." He pauses and looks up, meeting the Fostern's eyes frankly. "I made a decision, and I stick by it. So, tell me... What do you want?"

Luke says "Not an easy one? Did it never occur to you that we might understand that she didn't want to meet with us? That just maybe, if you'd come to me, or to a Fianna that you trust, if you don't trust me, and told us what was happening, that we might just stay away because we had family that wanted us to? That maybe we'd trust you enough to care for her as you had been? Because if I even suspected that you'd treated her poorly, we wouldn't be talking now, and one of us would be dead before it was settled. The question isn't what I want, Salem. The question is what you're going to do now."

Salem's mouth thins. His nostrils flare as he takes a breath -- again, keeping calm. Keeping _damned_ calm. He speaks slowly, with deliberation. "She did not want to meet you. She did not want to be _known_ to you. If I had told you about her, I would have broken my word. As a Philodox, I can not do that. The creed of Honor specifically forbids it, as does my own ethical standard." The Glass Walker is not, one may note, responding to the implied threat from the Fianna. "Now," he continues, the bolt-piece and oil rag forgotten in his hands, "what would you _like_ me to do? I don't personally _know_ the Rite of Contrition, but can learn and perform it, if that's what you wish, if that is what is required to make amends. If that is not enough, then tell me what _is_."

Luke shakes his head. "No, nothing so easy as telling you. I think I've given you an impression of just how seriously we take this. You're the Philodox, and you've challenged for Fostern. Judge. Find some way to set things right. But I'd suggest you do it quickly, or if it is something that will take more time, make it clear to us that it _will_ be done. By the next moot would be best."

"I already have a judgement for my challenge," Salem replies flatly. "Nor is _any_ judge qualified to judge himself. If you are that serious about it, then pick another Philodox to judge my actions, and I will submit to it. Preferably one that is neither of your tribe or mine." He pauses a beat. "That would leave Lyra, I suppose, of the Bone Gnawers. Or Anneka of the same tribe, if you can find her."

Luke says "Good. Personally, I hope and expect it was a success. The sept needs more leaders, right now. But that doesn't change the fact that I'll make sure every person in the sept knows exactly what you've done if the matter isn't resolved. They might not define honor quite the way you do. Because I know I can't help thinking lots of things like, 'What if she was a cub?' By your definition of honor, you'd have to steal her from the tribe." He shakes his head. "If you want another to judge, so be it. Lyra is an acceptable choice."

"If she were a cub, I would have hogtied her if necessary and delivered her to the Grotto myself," the Walker says blandly. "Ask Seeker... _twice_ I've had to take charge and deliver his tribe's cubs to him. But a kinfolk is quite different." He resumes oiling the bolt piece and nods. "Good. You can find her at the old church, or at her aunt's shop. I can give you the address."

Luke says "It was an extreme example, granted. The rest of this discussion can wait, I think. I'd appreciate the address, yes."

Salem nods and sets the piece down. Getting up, he crosses over toward the counter by the phone and scribbles down two addresses on a clean sheet of notepad paper. "Here," he says, tearing it off and handing it to the Fianna.

Luke looks at the address, then folds the piece of paper and puts it in his pocket. "I'll see if she's there, now. Whether she is or not, do you want to be there when I ask her?"

Salem shakes his head. "Not necessary," he replies, arms folded across his chest. His expression is unreadable. "I have an appointment to keep later this afternoon anyway."

Luke nods. "Good day, then." He turns and starts for the door.

"Be seeing you," the Walker replies, as the Fianna departs.


It is currently 22:43 Pacific Time on Tue Jun 17 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is clear outside. The temperature is 65 degrees Fahrenheit (18 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.92 and rising, and the relative humidity is 56 percent. The dewpoint is 49 degrees Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (78% full).

Location: The Forgotten Church, Gnawer territory.

"It's better than the ice melting all-- oh wait." Sarah brandishes a zip sandwich bag triumphantly, as she straightens. "Jackpot." Her smile turns quickly into a pained look, though, and her eyes are downcast as she tosses ice cubes into the bag.

The drawer with the saran wrap is pushed closed, and Quentin turns to step back over to the kinswoman's side.. one hand raising to touch her shoulder, a subtle trembling of tension in that contact as he murmurs, "It starting to hurt?"

Sarah nods minutely. "I'm gonna have to do that whole Wendigo straight face thing for a while," she murmurs, zipping the bag. A moment later she turns to him, the movement not enough to pull her shoulder from beneath his hand. "Are you sure you're okay?" She almost whispers the question, dark eyes searching his.

Quentin gives his head a barely-noticable shake, his lips crooking up at one corner in a barely-convincing smile. "Yeah," he says quietly, "I'm fine."

Worry touches Sarah's dark eyes, faint lines come to the corners. Her brow furrows. "No," she whispers. "No, you're really not..."

"I'm," Quentin says with a snort, "Just worried about -you-. Fuck, you're lucky he didn't stick around.. I probably would've had to gut the bastard.."

Dark eyes regard him steadily. "One of us would have killed him," she says quietly. "I was trying."

"I know," he says with a shake of his head, meeting her gaze steadily, "And you did good."

Sarah's brow furrows a little, the slightest frown. "I wasn't fast enough," she answers. "Or strong enough."

Quentin snorts at that, "What, and I was? The guy was built like a brick shithouse, Sarah.. only way /I/ could've stopped him was with a gun, or in war-form."

Sarah swallows. "Or by just showing up," she murmurs, meeting his eyes.

Quentin crooks a faint half-smile, looking away, "Yeah, well.. that was luck. I really need to ask Rina to get me a gun."

"Probably a good idea," Sarah murmurs, "if you're going to make it a habit, saving damsels in distress." She brings her hand up, to cover his own where it rests on her shoulder. There is a smile in her eyes, if not on her lips.

A faint, amused snort to that, and Quentin shakes his head as he looks back to her. "Yeah, well.. I'm not much of a knight."

"You seem to be doing pretty fine, so far," she says quietly.

"Thanks," he murmurs, hand sliding from her shoulder as he steps back, clearing his throat and looking to the stairs, "Anyway, we should probably head up.."

Sarah swallows. "Sure." She turns to wrap the icepack in the towel, bringing it along as she follows him up.

Quentin is silent, one hand on the rail as he heads along up the stairs.

Forgotten Church

The old church is dark, dimly lit by outside light coming in through scum-encrusted windows during the day, and tomblike during the night. There is a coatroom in the back of the nave, with separate doors leading off to mens' and womens' restrooms, and two staircases, one going up to the balcony and bell-tower, and the other leading down to the basement. The double doors leading out to the street are at the back of the coatroom.

The hard wooden pews in the sanctuary are, for the most part, still intact. There are even Bibles and hymnals left in the shelves along the back of each row, although many of them look rather chewed on. The altar on a dais at the front of the church is empty, and the lectern that once stood next to it has been knocked over. Rotting red cloth hangs at the very front of the church; there might once have been a design on it, but it has long since faded or been eaten away.

Sarah drops to sit crosslegged on the floor, cradling the towel-wrapped bundle to her bruised cheek. She watch Quentin with veiled eyes.

The old church's doors creak open, provoking a chorus of barking from the assorted smelly mutts that make the place their home. Salem bares his teeth at the largest and boldest of these, and while the barking doesn't stop entirely, most of the scruffy crew are noticably cowed, and none approach the pissy-looking Walker.

At the sound of the barking, Quentin's head raises upwards towards the doors in a moment's sharp tension.. that spills from his body like water, though not all of it, once the scarred figure in the doorway is recognized. "Thank fucking god," he breathes out, calling, "Salem-rhya."

Salem grunts. "Yes, Salem-rhya." He pushes the door closed behind him and stalks over toward the pair. His eye falls on Sarah for a moment or two, then turns to Quentin. "Got your message. Want to give me the details?"

Sarah pages: The right side of her face is hella bruised. She got bitchslapped.

Sarah twists up from her seat, giving the Walker a careful nod.

Quentin grimaces slightly, arms folding over his chest as he casts a look towards Sarah before looking back to his elder with his gaze slightly-lower than Salem's own. "I went by to check on her, see if she was settling in," he replies, "Noticed the door was broken -down- so I figured something was wrong-- this guy was in there, all in leather, leather mask with red inserts in the eyes to hide his eye color, throwing her around like a rag doll."

Salem's eyebrows reach for his hairline.

"Yeah, I know," Quentin snorts, "Sounds like a slasher flick. He even did the slow-walk-towards-you thing. He was saying something, but it was mostly russian, so I'm not sure.." He trails off, grimacing, "Anyway, I lured him out into the hall to get him away from Sarah, and she promptly jumped him with a knife from behind-- dug into his arm pretty deep, but he threw her off. I tackled his legs out from under him, he hit his head I think.."

Salem's gaze flickers to Sarah again when Quentin mentions her. As the cub trails off, he shakes his head. "Fucking city's getting stranger by the day."

"He ran," Sarah says quietly. "I'm not sure why. He was... very strong." The words are slightly distorted by the icepack.

"Maybe he hit his head harder'n it looked," Quentin says with a shake of his head, "Fucker kicked me on the way out, too, broke something-- my hip-bone I think." A wince at the memory, one hand sliding back over the denim of his jeans, "He was gone, so, I went glabro to heal it.. and got Sarah the fuck out of there." A nod towards a bloodied towel on a pew, "We mopped up some blood he left behind first, though, in case we can do something with it."

Salem grunts. "I can try Questing, but generally you need to know the target's name." He shakes his head again. "Christ in a whorehouse..." He eyes Sarah again. "Do you need help finding a new place to live?"

Quentin adds with a shake of his head, "There's some creepy russian guy in her Lit class, too.. I figured we could Jer break into the school's records and see who's registered for the class, then check this guy out."

Sarah glances to Quentin, a little worriedly. "It's probably nothing. It's just that I ... couldn't remember ever running into anyone Russian, even. Except him." She looks to Salem, then, and says, "It depends. If the Gnawers will allow to camp here, that's fine. I can manage."

Salem glances around and wrinkles his nose. "If you wish..." His tone is dubious. "I can check to see if there are openings in the building where I live now." He nods to Quentin. "Good suggestion."

Quentin just shakes his head to Sarah's words, pausing to check for any gnawers about before replying, "We're not going to leave you -here-.."

Sarah lifts her chin a fraction--but it's a challenge to look proud and defiant, while holding an icepack to one's cheek. "I'll find something before too long," she says quietly.

Salem exhales a breath. "A motel room would be more comfortable, at least. And have running water."

Quentin tips his head to Salem, allowing, "That'd work.."

Sarah looks decidedly uncomfortable. "I'll do fine on my own. I can get everything I need from school, until I find somewhere."

Salem studies the kinswoman for a moment, then nods, apparantly accepting her unwillingness to accept 'charity'. "The offer stands." He turns to Quentin, eyeing the boy critically. "Did someone call the police?"

Quentin gives his head a curt shake, "Not unless someone else in Red Mill did."

"I wasn't... sure if I should, sir." Sarah's voice is quiet. "I stabbed him. And... it's your city. I didn't think you would want one of your cubs getting involved with the f-- with the police."

Salem grunts. "Someone else was bound to have called it in. The landlord, probably... he's a nosy fucker." He eyes Quentin again. "You may as well hang around here as well."

There's a subtle alteration in the girl's posture; though she still holds the ice to her right cheek, she stands very straight. Her gaze meets the Walker's single eye, and she speaks almost like a soldier delivering a report.

Quentin grimaces flickering a look over to Sarah, "Yeah, best you didn't.. I'm still on the missing persons list, this would've been messy." At Salem's words, he blinks over, a bit surprised. "Uh. Well, okay. Any word on the safehouse, by the way?"

Salem's mouth thins. "I still have to meet with Leala and Wilbur about buying the property. Nothing more yet on that."

Sarah glances over to Quentin, worry in her eyes--a softness touching that impassive Wendigo expression. "I thought I remembered, you said something about that." She swallows.

Quentin tips his head in a slight nod, not too much surprised. "Alright. I might end up crashing in Alicia's spare bedroom for now, then, in lieu of anywhere else to stay right now.." A look back to Sarah, and he offers a faint half-crook of a smile, "Yeah, well.. anyway. We'll hang here 'till you get a new place."

"Excellent," says the Walker Elder, crisply. He seems in a better mood than when he entered, but it's a subtle thing. "Unless there's anything else, I have some more of the city to check out."

Sarah wets her lips nervously, looking up to the Walker Elder with a little lift of her chin. "Thank you for your help, sir," she says, her voice quiet.

"I'll let you know what happens," Quentin replies with a nod, and a faint smile, "Hopefully we can catch this asshole before long. Hopefully he's just some psycho human."

Salem grunts. "Hopefully." He tips his head politely at Sarah, then turns and stalks toward the door and out.

The Wendigo kin watches him worriedly, her expression darkening after Salem turns away.

Quentin slumps his hip against one pew, a hand raising to rake back through blue hair as the elder departs.

After a time, she comes over to him, tipping her head to get a look at his face. "You okay?" she asks, almost a whisper.